Today we are leaving the orchard. We’ll collect all our gear and arrange it in the truck in a manner that, we hope, will leave us somewhere to sit. We’ll sweep out the little shed in which we’ve camped all these years, lock the door, and drive away.

Endings like this are always bittersweet, a seesawing between looking back and looking forward. We wish we could keep this gorgeous little piece of land, with its mountain views and clear-flowing creek. But we couldn’t care for it well enough when we were living a mere 300 miles away. Getting here several times a year from our new home in Maine is out of the question.

Count the blessings in your life, not the sorrows: I’m not sure which grandmother planted that thought in my head, but it sprouted and keeps trying hard to grow. My parents certainly lived by it. And face it, with the state of the world no one is going to feel sorry for us trading one pretty piece of land for another (though not as pretty) in our newly chosen home. Nor should they.

Still, it hurt like hell this morning when I went down to the creek for the final time, and later as I walked through the rows of trees we’ve grafted and planted here. This is family land. I can’t help worrying that giving it up means weakening my connections to cousins who are still dear to me.

But how silly Jeff and I were to think we could keep an orchard with heritage apple trees (more fragile and finicky than commercial varieties) without using an array of strong chemicals—in our spare time! (If you’d like to read the full comedy of this venture, here’s a blog with the gory details.)

It wasn’t just the black rot and Japanese beetles and round-headed borers that defeated us. Living so far away we couldn’t possibly guard against the world’s most insidious danger, human miscommunication. Two years ago we arrived to find that an orchardist had cut down three beautiful old Stayman trees, thinking they belonged to another cousin whose land he tended. They were huge and priceless and produced some of our favorite apples. But they no longer gave commercial grade fruit, so down they went.

This time, returning after a five-month absence, we discovered that the same orchardist had done some pruning for us, as a favor. Where the lush heritage trees we’d tended for years had stood, we found severely topped trees we barely recognized. It was like looking at battered war victims, or amputees.

For months I’ve worried about what will happen to our trees when we leave, not just the apples but the poplars and sourwoods and cucumber magnolias that line the creek and have sheltered us for two decades. The thought of them somehow coming to harm makes my stomach flip. But a few weeks ago, as if in a dream, I thought I heard them speak to me. Something whispered in my ear, at any rate. It said, “What makes you think you have the power to protect us, or that we depend on you? We’ll do fine. Go live your life.” The voice of God, perhaps, vocalizing the sentiment of trees? It seemed completely crazy, except that what it conveyed was so sane.

This whirling dance of life isn’t something we can control. As I looked in horror at our newly pruned trees, I knew it was time for me to let the orchard go. Even the most severely pruned will likely survive and prosper, though in a different way—a less natural way—than we’d hoped. I turned from them and walked among the younger trees, many of which Jeff and I had created with sprouts from those older trees. I was amazed to see how big they’d gotten, and how strong. They are the future. I helped make them what they are. But I am not the center of their universe, nor they of mine.

So I lean again into a lesson I’ve learned so, so many times. All I can do is put my own goodness into the world. I diminish its power when I try to control how others react to it—or try to control anything, really. The miracles only come when I step away and allow them to.

As the day wears on, I let myself mourn for the orchard. I wallow in the sadness, I feel it to my very core—and suddenly I know I have the strength to slough off this skin of sorrow. I cry until I feel emptied, because that cleansing is a requisite step. And then I walk along the creek and the rows of trees one last time. I help Jeff shove the last things into the truck, sweep the shed floor, lock up and, looking toward the future, drive away.

The young woman—a girl, really—sat with her hands twisting in her lap, her knees bouncing nervously. As she spoke, her lips pressed into a pout. “It was Lucy’s idea. It WAS.”

All eyes turned to Lucy. But it was not her turn to speak. Ginger held the talking stick, and it was up to her to tell exactly what had happened.

“What were you thinking at the time?” one of the facilitators prompted gently.

“I dunno,” Ginger whined. “We were—we were just hanging out. We were bored, I guess. We didn’t have anything to do.”

I thought back to my own teenage years. I remembered that feeling so well.

Twelve of us had come together on a winter day to hear an account of a crime, a burglary by two teenagers, and to discuss how best to heal the harm that had been done. The offense had occurred in a quiet neighborhood. The girls involved were known and liked by the neighbor whose house they had broken into. At the time she’d been traveling in Africa. The girls had gone into her house through a back door and taken jewelry, a laptop, and some bras. Before they could leave, they’d been surprised by a neighbor who was taking in the mail.

The crime had badly split the neighborhood residents. Now this circle of people—the girls, their mothers, the owner of the house, the woman who’d caught them in the act, some community members, and two facilitators—were trying to figure out how things might be set right. The girls had chosen this course of action, known as restorative justice, with the hope that it would allow them to make amends and move forward without criminal charges on their records. But as Ginger’s demeanor clearly showed, it was not going to be easy.

I should stop here and tell you that this was not a real restorative justice circle. Ten of us were being trained to serve as facilitators in these kinds of conflict resolution interventions. The other two were well-seasoned facilitators. We had each been assigned a role and asked to play it sincerely. And we were, following the lead of the two women in the starring roles of the teenagers. Their performances were Academy Award material. I glanced back at “Lucy,” who was nervously turning an orange in her hands.

Everything I’ve learned about helping other people points to the same lessons: Never jump to conclusions. Avoid making snap judgments. As much as possible, act from your heart. This reads like a job description for restorative justice work, in which passions often run hot and surprises are to be expected. RJ, as it’s known, allows the victims of crimes to speak directly to the offenders, telling them what the crime has cost them, and not just in monetary terms.

I’d learned about restorative justice from a magazine article with the enticing headline “Can Forgiveness Play a Role In Criminal Justice?” It described the outcome of a murder case in Florida in which the parents of the young woman killed were able to speak directly to the murderer—who had been her boyfriend—and make suggestions about the sentence he should receive. The process had proved to be much more comforting to them than normal court proceedings would have been.

The RJ model is based on the kinds of circles or conferences used by many native tribes to deal with conflict. At the heart of the approach is the hope that the relationships damaged by the crime will be repaired and—perhaps even more importantly—that the conditions that led to the crime can be eliminated so others won’t follow the same path.

RJ cases can deal with a range of crimes from minor to serious. In each, the victims are able to speak directly to the offender about their feelings. Working with others they help develop a plan for what the offender can do to set things right. Everyone in the circle signs this “repair agreement” and agrees to support the person in carrying it out. If the offender fulfills the agreement promptly, the criminal justice system reduces the sentence considerably, if not dismissing the charge entirely.

Our faux circle that day was composed of volunteers interested in becoming facilitators with an organization here in Maine called the Restorative Justice Project. We listened as those playing the owner of the burgled house and other neighbors talked about the fear and insecurity they’d felt since the break-in, the sleepless nights they’d suffered through, and—most wrenchingly—the loss of their faith that their neighborhood was a safe, friendly place where everyone watched out for each other.

As I sat quietly, adding an occasional comment (I had been given the role of a local cop), I couldn’t help feeling that I was in way over my head. This work was going to be a serious challenge. What could I say to these two girls that might help?

But this also seemed like exactly the kind of service I’d been longing to find. Restorative justice cases often involve young people whose lives have gone awry because of a few bad decisions. I couldn’t think of anything better I could do in honor of our son, who lost his life nine years ago this month—and who, given a few different circumstances, might have been sitting in one of these circles as a 14-year-old. Reid had gone through a hellion period, though he’d grown out of it. I’d had my own sketchy string of teenage years.

As I waited for my turn to speak, I realized I couldn’t know what to say to help these girls, not at an intellectual level. I’d have to hope that some sort of wisdom would rise from my heart. To my astonishment, it did.

When the talking stick was passed to me, I suggested that the girls be required to get involved in some activities that would interest them and give them something productive to do. Even as I said it, I could hear my father grumbling at my teenage self to “go find something productive to do.” It made me cringe a little.

But it worked.

Ginger suddenly piped up that she had always wanted to volunteer to work with horses at a nearby stable. Lucy said she was interested in learning to garden. And so the group included those two requirements in the girls’ repair agreement, along with shoveling snow for the woman they’d stolen from and helping plan a block party to rebuild the community’s sense of camaraderie. The girls would also be required to meet weekly with a restorative justice mentor, who would keep them on track.

The circle broke up. We stepped out of our roles, laughing with incredulity at how believable it had been, and how powerfully the experience had touched our emotions. We talked about the strengths and weaknesses of the repair agreement we’d crafted. And we went home to our normal lives, knowing that perhaps very soon we’d again be in an RJ circle. But the next time the circumstances and people central to the case—those who’d harmed and those who’d been harmed—would be for real.

Here’s a link to the New York Times Magazine article that first stoked my interest in restorative justice:

Imagine a winter night in northern Delaware, no wind, just quiet, with the snow-covered land sparkling in the glow from the stars. The temperature is in the teens—cold for the mid-Atlantic, but not unusual. Six young people are climbing a hill, a steep, open slope, struggling upward and sliding halfway down, laughing, helping each other up but also grabbing at coats to pull back those in front. Me, my three best girlfriends, and a couple of boys. We were 17.

I breathed in the cold, exhilarated, filled with a sense of wanting to be exactly where I was, brought alive by the snow, and the company, and the feel of belonging. I vowed I would always live somewhere with real winter. Cold was part of me. I was part of it.

Which is why, six years later, I was so utterly stunned to find myself huddled miserably beneath blankets in my bedroom in Oregon, unable to get warm. Outside, the rains of the Pacific Northwest fell and fell. I had four quilts piled atop me, thick socks on my feet and my freezing hands between my knees. A fire sputtered in the living room wood stove, which I couldn’t get to draw.

It was 45 degrees.

I’d worked hard to get a job in the Northwest, land of wilderness and rain forest. Oregon was paradise—unless for some odd reason, maybe a misalignment of energies, you happened not to belong there. Which seemed to be the case with me. The mountains, so grand and gorgeous in sun, became imposing and impenetrable in fog and rain. Watching the blue Pacific surf crash against rocks made me lonely. It wasn’t just my body that was cold in Oregon. It was my spirit.

Fast forward through another half dozen years and carry me back across the continent, to a beach that curls far out into the Atlantic. I’m walking face into the March wind, bundled up tight and laughing with joy. My only companions are the sleek seabirds called gannets that hurl themselves into the sea like flung knives. The ocean is dark blue and stormy; the waves rise up and collapse. And for reasons I can’t begin to describe, I feel like I’ve found the one place I belong.

We stayed on the Outer Banks for more than 30 years, and I always woke ecstatic to be there. On gale-filled nights when the temperatures would dip into the 30s—ah, but the wind and damp made it seem so much colder!—I’d sit by the wood stove, warm and happy, and listen to the pines creak overhead.

It wasn’t until very late in my time there that something hit me: The same humid, penetrating cold that had so defeated me in Oregon brought me alive on the Outer Banks. How could that be?

We are so much more than our physical bodies. Our landscapes, the places through which we move, the terrain we traverse and the skies above us shape us in ways that aboriginal peoples knew very well, but that are given scant thought in our culture. For whatever reason, the ingredients that make up who I am clashed with the landscape of Oregon. When I reached the Outer Banks, though, I knew very quickly I belonged there.

But through the decades things changed. The once-tiny island towns were discovered. The modest cottages on the ocean were torn down and replaced with mansions. Driving past rows of closed-up rental properties one winter day, I had the sudden feeling that I’d stepped into an apocalypse: lots of pretty houses, no people. And in a community where folks had always cared for each other and helped their neighbors, the newly poor were sleeping in cardboard boxes in the woods.

As I looked at all those huge, empty houses with their darkened windows, I felt the first tendrils of cold creep around my heart.

Another leap in time, and now we’ve reached a January night just last year, on the midcoast of Maine. A community concert has ended; people spill out of the barn, carried into the cold by the fine music we’ve heard. Snow crunches underfoot. I tip back my head and marvel at the star-strewn sky. I embrace the frigid air. And for the first time in many decades, I feel the way I felt on that midwinter night in Delaware.

Could this wintry place become home? Could I learn to love it as I loved the Outer Banks?

As I write this, I sit in a cozy room in a house built in 1804, or thereabouts. Sunlight bounces through the window, reflected from the snow in the yard. I’m cold, yes, but it’s the kind that can be remedied with down comforters and wool socks. It radiates from outside, not from within.

Most of the time we’re cozy and content here in Maine. We walk the wooded trails outside our door (in boots or crampons or even snowshoes, depending what’s on the ground), taking in the unfamiliar trees and the rise and fall of the land, wanting to learn everything we can about this new place. Once in a while, though, we sit paralyzed in our little house, hiding beneath blankets, not quite knowing how to make a life here. The bad days come no more than once a week, but they do come. This is not an easy path we’ve chosen.

We have bet our happiness that the flame kindled within us by the landscape and people of the Outer Banks will carry us through as we find our footing here. On nights when the snow swirls and the frigid wind blows, we feel a deep glow that lingers from all we’ve left behind, and it sustains us.

This first post from our new home in Maine is written with deep thanks to all those I love on the Outer Banks.

Apologies for not posting a new blog entry in January. Things got a little crazy during our move north.

On the windowsill by my desk, lying lightly between a prism and a small china bowl, are two black-and-white feathers that to me symbolize courage. It’s crazy how they came to be there—crazy because their significance grew from a personal superstition. They were dropped in our yard by a pileated woodpecker, a grand, lovely bird with a huge bill and a bright red crest. Twenty years ago I was living quite happily in this house, on an island tucked in piney woods, with Jeff and our young son. My life was exactly as I wanted it. I loved my work, my family, and our home on the Outer Banks. And then, out of the blue, Jeff asked me if I’d be willing to move. There was a job that interested him in another state. I began waking each morning with a sense of dread. Would this be our last season in this home? Would I ever again find the same sweet sense of community? One day I noticed a pileated woodpecker haunting our yard. “Go away!” I hissed. But it stayed around, lurking among the trees like the spirit of change. Who can say what small seeds might harbor the genesis of our fears, or why? I’d always loved pileated woodpeckers. Before then I’d considered spotting one to be akin to a glimpse of God. Instead I started looking quickly away whenever I saw one or heard its hammering. If I don’t look at it, I thought, it can’t affect me. As it turned out, Jeff didn’t get the job, and we stayed put all these years. Every time I came home from a trip away, I heaved a deeply contented sigh. But there were costs to my decision to keep change at arm’s length. Later in his career Jeff’s sense of purpose began to falter—and I couldn’t help wondering if my reticence to relocate had held him back. What good things might have happened if I’d been willing to accompany him on a new adventure? All this came swimming up to the surface a couple of years ago when I found these two black-and-white feathers lying near the back steps. I picked them up and scanned the trees. The woodpecker who’d dropped them was nowhere in sight. I brushed them against my cheeks and took them inside. It was time—past time—for me to open to the possibility of change. Ever since, those feathers have lain on the windowsill or the edge of my desk. Occasionally I’d eye them with a sense of trepidation. Other days I’d pick them up and stroke them, daring them to unleash their power. Eight months ago I noticed they’d disappeared. I spotted them under my desk and brought them back into the light. And change found me. Our quiet home is now a jumble of packing boxes and possessions in various stages of being sorted. In a few short days, we will load everything into a truck bound for a small village in coastal Maine. It was not supposed to happen now. Who moves to Maine in the dead of winter? But a young couple we love want to buy our house. If we turn it over to them, they’ll infuse it with a new energy. Why not? So we told them that if they could sell their house (in the middle of a swamp, five miles down a road that floods) we’d sell them ours. We figured it would take them months. They sold it in three days. As we’ve started packing, I’ve come to realize how strongly I’ve fused with the spirit of this house. I know exactly how the sunlight will play across the living room floor in every season. I gaze out my study window into trees that during my time here have doubled in girth. How will I ever be able to close the door and walk away? Several times a week Jeff and I look at each other and ask, “What in God’s name are we doing?” But I know that if I give up this chance in favor of my steady, settled life here, in a few years I’ll be disappointed, maybe even ashamed of myself. All arrows are pointing us to Maine. We have good friends there. We love the culture and the change of seasons. A place for us to stay has become available—almost magically, it seems—and we’ve found a lovely little piece of land to buy, in a community where there’s very little affordable property for sale. How can we not go? So even as my emotions seesaw from excitement to sorrow, I sort through the possessions in another closet and pack another few boxes. I know I’ll have some bad moments. Last week I talked with a friend who moved to another state to be with a new love, only to have the relationship fall apart after five weeks. “All the right doors had opened,” he said. “It was like life was telling me I needed to follow that path.” Broken-hearted, he returned to his old town and spent months sleeping on friends’ couches. As he spoke, I could feel my heart rate rise. “That won’t be my story,” my mind screamed. “Everything’s going to be great for us.” But honestly, there’s no way to know. All I can do is take a chance and go. If misfortune comes crashing down—well, at least I won’t be living in a rut. And my friend’s story seems to be edging toward a happy ending. Feeling sorry for him, his ex-wife cooked him a few meals. They began spending time together, and appreciating what they’d first loved about each other. Who knows where it might lead? So each morning I go out to the yard, to a beloved grove of trees, and meditate one more time. I try to push aside my vast to-do list in favor of stillness. When peace has settled on me, I go inside to sort through books and ready another carload of clothes or unwanted trinkets for the local thrift store. I brush the woodpecker feathers lightly against my lips. And I think of where I will carefully pack them to carry with me, away from the wide beaches of the Outer Banks and into the snowy north.

I wrote this a few weeks ago, and we are on our way to Maine. Wishing you all peace and new adventures during this holiday season and the coming year.

Quick: In the next 30 seconds, think of all the hats you wear, and the roles you play—parent, child, breadwinner, friend, peacemaker, strong one—and perhaps even write them all down.

Now look over the list and think about which roles you could comfortably step away from. How many of them would you be reluctant to give up? How many cause you to feel overwhelmed?

This is not at all a novel exercise, but it is enlightening. I’ve tried to keep it in mind over the past decade, ever since I encountered it in a book our wonderful adult Sunday school class was reading: Eckhart Tolle’s A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life’s Purpose.

Tolle writes about the social roles we take on and how tightly they constrict us, if we let them. Like it or not, our social standing largely determines how we move through the world, and how others orbit around us. “The way in which you speak to the chairman of the company might be different in subtle ways from how you speak to the janitor,” he writes. True, and I’m ashamed to admit it. Watch carefully, he says, and you will detect this kind of performance first in others and then in yourself. It can be a formidable barrier to loving kindness.

But how do you not play a role? As soon as you try to be “just yourself,” Tolle notes, your mind creates a role for you, perhaps something like “wise one.” The only way to step completely out of role-playing is to admit you don’t know who you are. “If you can be absolutely comfortable with not knowing who you are, then what’s left is who you are—the Being behind the human, a field of pure potentiality rather than something that is already defined.”

“Give up defining yourself—to yourself and others,” he counsels. “You won’t die. You will come to life.”

I liked the idea of losing myself, of shedding my social standing like snake skin. I tried it and found that by not defining myself by vocation or any other label, I remained more open to the people I met each day, regardless of whether I knew them. It was remarkably freeing to step away from long-held constraints, such as being the family member who always bakes the traditional Christmas cookies. I hadn’t realized how much of the drudgery of my life was self-imposed. I was having fun with the whole concept—until our son was killed and the role of mother was taken from me.

Losing Reid robbed me of a key part of my identity (and my heart). But it also gave me a choice. I could wrap myself tightly in the cloak of the brokenhearted and no one would blame me. Or I could refuse that role. What if I chose something else? What new identity might I take on? When I stumbled across the idea that I might be able to again find meaning in life by learning to help people in need or trouble, I grabbed it and held on. And yes, bit by bit it has helped bring the light back.

The challenge now is for me to step into new situations without letting myself be pigeon-holed as someone who believes or acts or must be treated a certain way. I need to also avoid pigeon-holing myself. To keep my role as grieving mother from ruling my life, I had to take a firm step away from it.

Over time I’ve found myself working to discard another role: that of the knowing one. This one is especially difficult to shrug off when I’m trying to help someone else. As the perceived helper or rescuer, it’s assumed (sometimes by the other person, sometimes by myself) that I hold the knowledge to improve the person’s situation. But that’s dead wrong. The only way to make lasting change in someone’s life is to work with him to help him find ways to reach his goals. I hold no magic key.

When I make kindness and openness my prevailing sentiment, it lets me ignore the incessant voice of my ego if, for instance, it tells me that I know more than the person I’m with. Possibly I do. But as someone who is trying to give up myself in order to give of myself, I should assume that I do not. An essential part of the journey is letting go of my own lust to control things. I should allow people the space and freedom to become powerful in their own ways.

How comfortable am I, living with no prescribed role? Not at all, most days. How can I become more comfortable? I suspect it’s by gradually peeling away the layers of my artificial identity and, as I realize I’ve taken on yet more roles, being willing to let them go.

In the Shamanistic practices of Peru, there is a prayer that asks Sachamama, the Great Serpent, to help us learn to shed our pasts the way she sheds her skin. This is one of the points where aboriginal practices, Christian beliefs, and Eastern philosophies converge. Jesus asks us to be humble and to nurture the deepest compassion we possibly can. What better way to become “the Being behind the human” than to step away from the roles heaped on us since birth?